


Natural Consequences

by laEsmeralda



Series: Consequences [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 04:52:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laEsmeralda/pseuds/laEsmeralda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal attempts to help Peter and gets in over his head co-opting a joint operation with the British Secret Service in Atlantic City.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Natural Consequences

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Season 1-3 references; improbable crossover; threat of sexual violence

 

James observed the gambler creating a distraction, and he catalogued: early thirties with a younger look, crisp dresser, deft hands, easy laugh. The man sparkled in a subtle way, far in the ultraviolet, drawing butterflies toward implied nectar. In turn, _their_ bejeweled fluttering, expensive perfumes, and amused voices, affected anyone not properly trained. Which would still leave the casino cameras unimpressed. But the gambler didn’t seem worried about the cameras. 

With detachment, James sipped, pleasantly flinching at the bite of martini, elbow on the bar. This particular form of distraction could only serve to draw unhelpful attention from casino security. The fellow was making an amateur mistake, or else… James smiled at himself and turned for a refill. Holiday indeed. He had remained alive by always being on the job. That, and blind, drunken luck.

Fresh drink in hand, James renewed his observation. The man had won several hands in a row, and now he lost spectacularly before a rapt audience. The fluttering subsided, brilliant wings scattering from the empty flower to find sweeter fare. Shrugging at defeat, the man tossed in extra chips—a generous tip, and approached the bar. “Ketel One, rocks.” He turned and looked back at the table, wistfully. “Better make it a double while I can still afford it,” he said over his shoulder. It was a smooth American voice, not at all concerned at the loss of a substantial sum.

“Either you’re very rich, highly masochistic, or quite clever,” James said after the bartender went to the far end, pitching his voice below the relentless gaming floor soundtrack.

The man eyed him cautiously. He sipped, ice shifting in his glass.

James spread his hands in peace. “I don’t work for anyone of concern to you. Just people-watching on my time off.”

This time, the eyeing encompassed a more full appraisal. “I know a little something about that. It’s hard for some of us to punch out at the end of a day.”

Ah. The fellow was not just a gambler. Probably a thief as well, but there was something more. Butterflies could see ultraviolet, but James perceived in the infrared. “A piece of friendly advice?”

“I doubt I’d have anything of value to impart.” The smile was rakish with a touch of, what was that, shyness? Almost impossible to pull off, but there it was. 

James sipped. “Right.”

“I’m sorry, you just set it up so nicely, Mr. Bond.” The man extended his hand. “I’m Neal Caffrey. Peter Burke sent me.”  
******

He wasn’t precisely disappointed at the interruption of his holiday. But at least they could have done him the courtesy of providing a CIA operative. FBI? Pure farce. And the obviously _junior_ agent had appeared two days early. Further bad form. 

Lounging on a chaise, James peered through dark glasses at the bar across the pool. Caffrey’s shoulders glistened because he had taken several brisk laps, peeled himself out of the water noisily, and padded over to deliberately drip on their target’s bare feet while awaiting a drink, his sopping shorts—actually more modest than James’ own—providing a choice of views, front, back, side. Most pairs of female eyes had already tuned in.

James suppressed a chuckle. He had used himself as bait himself more than a few times. But this FBI fellow didn’t do guns. And the target—Pendelton—most certainly did. It was a stupid risk, the Americans apparently desperate to impress. Caffrey had pointed out that arms dealing in Atlantic City is a white collar crime for the yanks, not a spy issue. But there should have been backup. Spies often worked alone, but not bureau boys. 

And Pendelton was paying attention to Neal’s ass. A top. How cliché.  
*******

The right keys, the right door, the right time, but the wrong package. He had intercepted the intel, focused on Peter getting the credit—Peter and no one else. 

But there were no crates of guns in this warehouse. Only a missile. An intimidating, crated missile with the control module attached, screen dark. Neal tacked on the trackers, hoping the buyer’s plan wasn’t to fire it from here, wondering how he would get a clean message back. 

In passing afterward, on the casino floor, James chided crisply, “You should have waited for me. It was a stupid risk.”

“Photos taken with GPS verification, vacation interruption minimal.” Neal slid the smartphone into James’ pocket on the way by with a deliberate nudge. “Make sure your people know it was Peter Burke who got them this.”  
*******

Pendelton was used to devouring what he cut from the herd. He didn’t know that Neal had lifted, copied, and replaced the three different keys needed to access his warehouse, didn’t know his most recent sale would take down his organization. But he did know a fine piece of ass, and he would be damned if this one would thwart him with polite declines. 

Which is how Neal found himself in the penthouse elevator with two large men insisting that he come upstairs for a drink. Talking certainly didn’t work, even a sincere if cheeky bribe offered in Hungarian. They only chuckled and suggested, in Hungarian as well, that he simply enjoy himself, after which, Pendelton would reward him. That’s when he realized they didn’t know about the keys or the trackers or the photos.

Neal was not without resources, but violent escape was not his strong suit. And he guessed that fear, struggle, and attempted force would only enflame Pendelton. Power, after all, was plainly the man’s drug of choice.

The thugs urged him forward off the elevator. Pendelton perused slowly, a dangerous look in his eyes. Neal had managed prison unscathed because people wanted other things he had to offer, and he could demonstrate near-instant results. He had other things to offer now as well, but they did not belong to him, and Peter did, so he wouldn’t bargain with any of that. Instinctively, he bought time with banter. “I’m flattered,” he opened.

“I’m not,” Pendelton replied. He knocked back a slug of fine cognac and smiled. “Which actually, suits me better.” He stepped up and ripped Neal’s shirt all the way down the front. 

“Dammit, that shirt set me back $300,” Neal protested, trying to stay in character. 

Pendelton snapped his fingers and a bodyguard slapped a few bills on the nearby table. “I have tested the soundproof nature of this suite,” Pendelton said in clipped tones, “I won’t insist on the ball gag until a bit later.” 

Neal eyed the guards with his peripheral vision. 

“Staying is part of their compensation. It lets me relax into our time together, knowing they have my back. Oh, and I would prefer you fight me a little. If I’m pleased, you won’t have to service them as well. Poor them.” Pendelton made a mock sad face. 

Neal’s pulse sounded in his ears. The patio door was shut, probably locked, and there would be no breaking safety glass without time he wouldn’t have. Locking himself in the bathroom was a temporary option, but only that. Still… he was suddenly frustrated with himself. How did he lose control of the situation? He realized how accustomed he had become to safety on the other end of the anklet, the rescue always kicking ass to find its way to him in time if something went wrong. He had chosen to fly solo, and choices bore consequences.

Pendelton dipped his hand into a dish and slowly swirled his fingers around in whatever it contained. The gesture was prolonged, Neal supposed, to inspire dread. Neal was pointedly ignoring it when Pendelton unceremoniously jammed two of those fingers into Neal’s mouth and hooked his lower jaw. Reflexively, Neal bit, and Pendelton slapped him hard. The sharp inhalation caused a fizzle and pop in his brain, and a bitter, chilly, numbing spread through Neal’s mouth. He wasn’t sure what it was, but cocaine seemed most likely. The fingers steadily applied pressure. Neal slid to his knees, mind running all the options.

“You know what’s interesting? Not too long from now, you’ll be hard. As much as you don’t want any of it, I’ll be in control of even that.” Pendelton beckoned to one of the guards who pulled out a silenced weapon and stood closer, from Neal’s vantage point, a bulge evident in those trousers as well. “If he bites me again, shoot him. In the heart, please. No head shot _while_ he’s giving head.” He looked down at Neal. “Now, go on.”

Neal shut his eyes briefly. The options had narrowed. He should have made for the bathroom while he was still on his feet. He focused, reached out to unbuckle, unzip, untuck. If he could maneuver Pendelton between himself and the guard, he’d have a chance. He blinked. 

“I’m not entirely sadistic,” Pendelton smiled down at him. “I brought a little more candy for you.”

Pendelton’s upturned dick had been coated in oil or lotion and dusted with glistening white powder, a great deal of which had survived his clothing, and some of which was doubtless racing through the man’s system, fueling the scenario. A gun cocked behind Neal. “Best not to lick it all off,” Pendelton chuckled, “you’ll want some elsewhere in a bit.” 

The altered state sharpened Neal’s sense of time, gave him the illusion of power. It seemed to him he should bite, roll, take the bullet, survive it somehow. But he knew better. He leaned in, making a decision, when two loud pops sounded in rapid succession, followed by very heavy thuds as two bodies hit the floor, followed by agonized groaning. 

“Kevlar. How gratifying. I know how hard it is to clean blood from carpet.” James knelt and tazed the thugs into silence. To Neal, he said, “Back away, I wouldn’t want to hit you by accident,” keeping his own silenced weapon trained on Pendelton.

Neal complied, easing back on hands and knees and then carefully standing. 

Pendelton hadn’t begun to flag, nor did he try to cover up. “Intriguing,” he said, instead. “Joining us uninvited?”

“I’m afraid I don’t share my… companion,” James said, politely. Keeping the gun on Pendelton, he paced to Neal, wiped a trace of cocaine off his lip with a gentle thumb. “I was rather vexed at your lateness, until a hostess explained you had come up here.” He shifted back to Pendelton. “A little game at my request, all the flirting. Helps get the blood up, you know? My fault, entirely. Lift, Dear.” 

Pendelton watched James, his eyes cobra flat. “My bodyguards—”

“Dreadfully under-qualified as it happens. Best not to mix business and pleasure in future. Had their attention been on the lift, well, we would be playing out a different story entirely.” He backed in after Neal and punched the ground floor. 

Neal leaned heavily against the wall, panic, drugs, and relief racing through his system. 

“Here.” James pocketed the gun and shrugged out of his jacket. “Button it up. A car’s waiting.” 

Ten minutes or so later, Neal regrouped a bit, finding himself in the back of a limo, still breathing too fast, with James regarding him stonily. “Thank you,” he managed.

“It was bloody fucking stupid to provoke him in the first place. There were other ways to get the keys. But you didn’t ask.” He paused, eyeing Neal. “I understand not being a team player. But you aren’t… trained for this. In fact, you’re not supposed to be here at all.”

Neal’s brain raced, trying to figure out how that information would have gotten to James. “Who…”

“It’s obvious to anyone as jaded in the profession as I am although I didn’t realize it straight away. That flavor of youthful authenticity is probably how you managed to fool Pendelton as well. I would imagine it won’t occur to him how he’s been had until the game’s fully up. Which is somewhat useful in the end.” James smiled a half-smile. Then his eyes turned flat again. “Still, I would have enjoyed shooting him.” He handed Neal a cold glass, which Neal took for water, and discovered too late was vodka. He sputtered. 

“Oh God,” he gasped. 

“The Beast is easily subdued by a few pink elephants,” James chuckled, settling back. “If you don’t mind, we’ll take advantage of a friend’s penthouse, lie low for a bit. Just the thing, and she owes me.”

At the moment, Neal couldn’t imagine lying low. His nerves sang, and indeed, his cock was hard. He knew it was the drug, something he would never intentionally take because it inflated one’s confidence, distorted calculation, forced the senses. “I’m afraid I’m ruining your jacket,” he said, shivering for all the molten heat and resulting sweat.

James dismissed concern with a flick of the fingers. “You’ll need it to get past the doorman.” He focused on Neal’s face for a long moment. “You will be fine, I promise. A swim, a shower, it’ll moderate.” He turned to look out the window. “Perhaps a wank in the shower is in order,” he chuckled.

Neal felt a flush of humiliation and anger. “Not funny.” Pendelton had been moments away from gagging him with his barebacking dick, with worse on the program ahead. Despite that thought, his erection didn’t falter. He glanced surreptitiously at his own lap—nothing showed. 

James chuckled again. “I’m not laughing at you, actually. You’re behaving in a quite restrained manner. I’m recalling my own initiation with the Beast. As you Americans say, it wasn’t pretty.” 

“Oh.” It was a little too easy in his fevered state to imagine James losing some of his impassive demeanor. He stayed silent for the rest of the drive, accepting one more shot when James gravely poured. He noticed that James was not partaking.

The next elevator ride up rolled over him easily. James had a firm hand on his elbow, keeping equilibrium. Neal could hear his own pulse and briefly thought that he could hear James’ too over the whoosh of air in the shaft. It was nice for someone else to be in charge at the moment. Someone older and wiser. Calmer. A little like having Peter at his side. Steadfast, faithful, _straight_ Peter, handling the aftermath of one of Neal’s plans. Neal sighed. 

“You okay?” James queried.

“Just missing my partner.” 

“The agent I’m supposed to meet tomorrow.”

Neal didn’t answer. The elevator pinged. James coded in again and the doors opened on an ultramodern flat with a glass-wall-to-the-sea. “Make yourself comfortable. I recommend the swim straightaway. A door on either end of the patio leads to a bed and bath—you choose, they’re both fine. I’ll fix us a drink and order some food.” 

Neal looked down at the jacket, the lining wet with his sweat. He unbuttoned and shrugged out of it. “Don’t know what to do about this…”

“I’ll ring and send my suit and your trousers down—I retrieved your items from the hotel and checked us out. I don’t imagine you have many spares in that bag.”

“Jacket. Change of shirt. Tie and vest. Hat.” Neal itemized just to keep from zipping around the room.

“The valet here is superb. There’s a robe or two in each closet. You really should swim, it helps.”

Neal nodded and headed out to the pool. He didn’t bother with the damp trunks in his bag, just dropped his clothing on a chaise and plunged in. Somewhere during the mesmerizing twenty laps, he was aware of James coming to collect the ruined shirt and his trousers that Neal was sure had permanent wrinkles from kneeling. 

The water was cold, the sun hot. When he emerged, he did feel less wired, more pleasantly buzzed. A towel awaited him, and a glass of what turned out this time to be water. He padded down to the south end of the patio and found the door to one of the bedrooms. It glowed all light gray, pale lilac, plush, expensive. He dropped his bag, found the jacket gone, and pulled out the spare shirt, tie, and vest, hanging them on a Danish valet-chair. 

A quick shower in excessively hot water and the liberal use of expensive moisturizer stocked in sample sizes on the vanity also felt amazing. He did _not_ beat off despite the nagging erection from hell. Anything his mind would produce right now would not be fun or healthy. 

He found the robe and added underwear just for control. Thus fortified, he went to the living room. James stood gazing out to sea, the Atlantic turbulently gray but still beautiful. He looked freshly showered, his polo and trousers impeccable. “Feeling better?”

Neal nodded, then shrugged. “It’s still…”

James glanced at his watch. “It’s only been 90 minutes. You’ve got another hour, I’d say, before you come down. I’d imagine it’s only the best blow for Pendelton.” 

Neal made a face.

“Apologies. I meant no such reference.” 

Neal shrugged and went to the bar. There were some bottles of red in fair vintages. He perused them. 

“I wouldn’t,” James said. “Keep to hard liquor. The sugar in wine… well, in my experience, it isn’t a good mix with what you already have on board.”

“Thanks.” Neal poured a top-shelf gin over ice and squeezed a lime, ignoring the soda water. He could feel James watching him. “Something on your mind?”

“Just wondering about that partner of yours. How he could let you get out in front like that when you aren’t… suited for that kind of mission.”

Neal mulled over the use of “mission.” “We call it a case. He doesn’t know I’ve slipped my leash. And will be royally pissed when he figures it out.” A grin started. “But he’ll have the team credit—which means I would only owe him thirty more cases like this to make us even. And he’ll turn around and go home safely to his wife who happens to be a dear friend. Everyone wins.”

All of a sudden, Neal felt himself slamming back against the wall of cabinets against the full weight of James’ body, a forearm across his throat. “Don’t interfere, ever again, with a mission plan that involves me. Understood?” The eye contact felt more intensely angry than the mild pressure on his larynx.

Neal felt his pulse thudding in sixteenth notes against James’ arm. He nodded. “Sorry,” he rasped. “Really. I was only thinking to spare Peter.”

James did not let up and gave Neal an extra jolt against the cabinets. “You shouldn’t be so eager to be tortured for anyone’s sake, whatever you’ve done.” He eased off just a bit. “That is only for well-hardened professionals and with us, only as a last resort or result of dire mistake. 

So help him, although he clearly heard James’ words and comprehended the lesson, he was also feeling the heat of the other man’s body, the tautness of his muscles, the lingering stars of pain from being jammed into the white-lacquered wood, and enjoying all of it. 

Since he had started working with Peter, he had only allowed himself sex with women. In a twist that made no logical sense, whenever he started down that path with a guy, it felt like cheating. But not at the moment. Apparently, cocaine didn’t know from cheating. It didn’t care if the other guy was straight. Neal took a long breath to steady himself. “Noted,” he said. “You might want to back away now.” He didn’t say why, just held still, aching dangerously against the pressure from James’ hip. 

James blinked and then eased away. He moved to make himself a martini. “Not that I didn’t enjoy snatching you from the spider, but that wasn’t the purpose for which I flew the Atlantic to this less than fabulous destination.” He took a sip and turned back to Neal. “Listen, Caffrey, you have more than one problem—I’m somewhat of an expert in these things—and at least one of them is self-imposed.”

Neal raised an eyebrow and retrieved the glass he luckily hadn’t been holding when James grabbed him. 

“This Peter. Married, I think you said, the wife is a friend? Either make a move or move on with your life.”

Neal broke eye contact. He didn’t insult either of them by denying it.

James looked him over, carefully. “You see women. I think you _do_ women as well.”

Nodding, Neal let his eyes drift to the seascape. The wind had kicked up in the late afternoon, whitecaps showing on darker gray. 

“That makes life more interesting. How about beyond sex?”

“I thought I’d found the one true,” Neal replied. “She’s dead a year now.”

“Condolences.” James paused for a good long moment, acknowledging the departed. He sipped. “Now, a man. How Shakespearean—if the bard had been brave enough to write it in more than oblique references.” 

Neal flinched. “The odds are long that he’s capable of reciprocating. I don’t want to ruin what we do have.”

They drank in silence for a few minutes. “So, I conclude that you are as complicated as you appear to be,” James said, finally. “That superficial act you ran at the casino didn’t really suit you.” He set his drink aside, folded his arms. “And you’ve saved me the trouble of an indirect gambit, which while also amusing is ultimately less… satisfying.”

“Indirect—“

“My resources are more limited here in _New Jersey_ ,” James interrupted with some distaste. “But I might have nonetheless suggested that we entertain a woman together this evening. Excellent for purging adrenaline.” 

The way in which James said it rippled over Neal, and he could feel the scenario all at once, taboo and fraught and compelling, pretext giving way late in the game.

James drained his glass. “That said, you are still high as a kite. It isn’t ideal. Shall we order dinner?” He reached for the service phone.

Neal suddenly looked down and saw his hand over James’, keeping the phone on the hook. He hadn’t thought to move. This close, without the aggression between them, Neal was slightly taller. He used that angle to catch James’ mouth on the sly. The man had amazing lips in an otherwise plainly rugged face, lips which responded eagerly, vodka, vermouth, gin, and lime commingling, the buzz of cocaine momentarily freshening to intensify the sensation.

James got a firm grip on Neal’s waist, pressed his hips back a scant inch, and broke free long enough to mutter, “You’re too far ahead, dammit,” before plunging their mouths back together. It took Neal fewer than thirty more seconds to know that James liked a little manhandling. That brought him to his knees, this time enthusiastically, discarding the belt, working open the trousers. He found nothing to liken to Pendelton, and reveled in the fact that James had to white-knuckle the counter to maintain control. Neal paused. “Not too far ahead now, am I?” He punctuated with a swirling swipe of his tongue that drew out a groan. 

Regaining his feet, Neal pulled James after him into the sitting area, modern edges of steel and wood giving way to flat and wide leather sectionals unfriendly to sitting. James whipped off his polo and slid to his back, snagging Neal’s robe, leaving Neal standing in boxer briefs. James tucked his hands behind his head and suddenly seemed to be highlighted here and there with fizzling white sparks. 

Neal shook his head once to clear it. Tan, scarred fitness contrasted nicely with the soft cream leather and he wanted the visual to be his own, not enhanced. Tugging James’ trousers and shorts off, he delayed getting naked to maintain the power dynamic to which the other man seemed to respond—a benefit of Understanding the Mark 101. Neal peeled off his shorts without theatricality, dropped them carelessly, and straddled James, sliding hands up ribs, armpits, the underside of biceps, to hold James’ forearms firmly against the couch.  
*******

It was an erotic fiction but an effective one. The sleight man had real strength although he couldn’t wield it effectively without training. James shifted his hips up in response to being held down—that and adrenaline and a massively attractive reason for being on his back just now. He would have liked to dig his fingers into those thighs, but not as much as he liked being prevented, relished the hint of an ache in his shoulders as they balanced some of Caffrey’s weight. 

James looked down along their bodies. Caffrey was leaking all over him, something always fascinating, as it wasn’t how his worked at all. James flexed again, sliding cock on cock in a way that made him hiss through his teeth. He didn’t regret foregoing a female body between them although that would have been pleasant enough. 

Caffrey took over, choosing his own rhythm. James saw the first spurt before his eyes slammed shut on the blinding goodness. He forced them open as the waves were still rolling out—Caffrey was just going over, sounding desperate and bottled up, his head hanging and then flung back. 

James let him calm for a few seconds and then rolled them both off the couch.

Something inarticulate but curse-worthy issued from Caffrey’s lips and James ignored him, propping on an elbow and taking a firm grip with the other hand. He stroked slowly and ungently, and when Caffrey protested, he soothed with a low murmur. “You’re not finished. It isn’t finished with you.” He paused briefly to smooth a few splatters into skin and trace muscles that were unhealthily close to the skin, like his own, then returned to stroking. Caffrey looked up at him and he didn’t look away. They studied each other, coolly, rationally. James said, “You have intriguing eyes but I prefer to watch when you come. You don’t mind.”

“Oh, not at all,” Caffrey replied, short of breath, fingers digging into the rug. 

There wasn’t much fluid this time, _how could there be_ , James reflected, but the intensity was gratifying, Caffrey’s skin ripe to bursting in his hand, the muscles in his abdomen bunching.  


He waited for the slim body to relax back to the floor, then he rose and padded to retrieve a bar towel, the semen on his belly gone cold and sticky, any moment of intimacy well over. He ran the water hot and cleaned himself up, pulling the phone off the hook with the other hand. 

“I’m thinking steak and French beans,” James said aloud, and didn’t wait for an answer.  
*******

So quickly over—from spark, to heat, to spent. Neal lay on the thick rug, feeling a bit of a chill on his bare skin. He listened to James order food for them both. 

Of course, he thought of Peter. Simple touch, brief entanglement, release—why was it so complicated, so far out of reach? If someone like James could chameleon his sexual preferences to suit any given situation, why couldn’t Peter? Neal huffed a resigned breath. Not that simple. 

His body told him to fuck right off for not basking in the best moments to be had in well over a year, and for not trying to get more, as soon as possible. His head felt calm and clear, without any lingering trace of drug. He hoisted himself upright and collected his underwear, stuffing it in the pocket of the robe as he struggled into the armholes.

“Shame,” James replied, leaning against the bar buck-naked. He checked his fabulous watch. “Seems early to be _entirely_ finished but then, you’ve had a day.” The smile was only mildly sardonic.

It surprised him. “I was only thinking not to shock the concierge.” After an extended silence, he dropped the robe. 

“Difficult to offend a dumb-waiter,” James replied, sliding open a certain cupboard door by way of explanation. “But you’re feeling uncomfortable. I understand.” He busied himself mixing another two martinis. “Prison doesn’t foster comfort in one’s nudity. Neither does consorting with the exclusively heterosexual.”

Neal chuckled. “Consorting. Perfect.”

“Although, I have only one basis upon which to conclude that the ‘exclusively’ applies. My inference could be flawed.”

“I don’t understand.” Neal accepted the martini glass. 

“Apparently, Agent Burke hasn’t accidentally shown attraction.”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“Yet, he isn’t chilly. You feel fondness from him, physical affection—he doesn’t hold that back.”

“Right. Well, he does when he’s angry. And he will be angry when he discovers this small caper.” 

James regarded him, cold and respectful. “Small caper indeed.” He rattled his ice. “I will do this for you, I will test him and give you my opinion if you like. But it will be an honest one.”

“Why the interest in my secret hell?”

“You were once comfortable in your own naked skin,” James said, reaching out to thumb Neal’s lean bicep. 

Neal’s eyes slid closed. A sun-drenched apartment, no care for what the neighbors might see, Kate laughing. Reflexively, he smiled. “I was.” He opened his eyes to the steady, blue-gray gaze. 

“Reciprocation will do that. The honest sharing of your nature and its acceptance by another will make you yourself. And now, you are not.” James’ hand lifted to rest on Neal’s shoulder. “There don’t seem to be many of us with a taste for both sexes. We’re an underground society revealed to few, existing in shadow, but someone like you doesn’t have any trouble with access. Aside from our kind, there are plenty of men who don’t understand your attraction to women but would have sex with you anyway. Your deprivation is self-imposed. I don’t see the point. ”

This time, Neal sipped in a studied manner, hard pressed not to lean into James’ hand in a way that would seem vulnerable. “I thought you would fuck and then retreat into small talk,” Neal said. 

“Oh, I do make a habit of sampling and moving on,” James replied with an easy smile, “but it’s a thorough sampling. I often stay the whole night.” He ducked in and made a study of Neal’s mouth with his own. 

Neal felt James’ hand cup him, gently rolling him to half-hardness. “I can’t manage at the moment,” Neal breathed when they broke. “Except to receive,” he added, after a pause to think.

James chuckled. “Food soon. You’ll feel better.” He lowered his voice as though sharing a secret. “With a man, I only enter just before he orgasms, at the moment when the most bizarre desires manifest in the mind—the ones generally not acted upon. I enjoy being part of the fevered nightmare when for just a few seconds, a man would do anything to get off. So… I wouldn’t want to have you just now.”

Being soft didn’t stop the rush of response through his body. Drawing James closer, Neal asked, equally softly, “Is that how you prefer to receive as well?” He thought the answer to be otherwise and punctuated his deduction with a bite to James’ trapezius, eliciting a groan. It was enough to confirm the right course of action, and Neal filled his hands with James’ ass. Further confirmation poked at his naked belly. Just then, the dumbwaiter trilled. 

James sighed, long and deep.

“Just as well,” Neal said. “I need the recovery time.” Difficult to believe that the mere idea of fucking James into the carpet didn’t bring him hard. But then, he had had a day, as James had put it.

They ate heartily at the poolside as twilight turned to city glitter all around. As they talked, James was able to drink continuously without showing any signs of inebriation. Neal pulled back after the pre-dinner martini, knowing he couldn’t keep up, and shouldn’t. 

A chill settled and they retreated indoors. They had a surprising catalog of interests in common, and near-midnight found them curled on the sectional, still talking. 

“Unlike me, you yearn for love,” James said, abruptly. “It’s a tantalizing quality.”

“I beg your pardon?” Neal was taken aback; they had just been discussing Kazakhstani politics.

James slid much closer and touched Neal’s jaw, his voice lowering. “You might imagine that to do what I do requires, if not a sociopath’s brain physiology, the conditioning necessary to mimic one in all respects. While not impossible in a theoretical sense, love is well outside the list of things I desire. Sex is pleasurable _for me_ , and I endeavor to make it so for others in order to increase my own satisfaction. One would not know the difference from the outside.”

Neal didn’t know whether to say, _I’m sorry_ , so all he said was, “Oh.”

“Despite your con man persona, you aren’t sociopathic. You hope for the possibility of love, however remote, when you engage in sex. It’s charming. It isn’t about me, or any partner in particular, but you discover a little sense of disappointment when rationally, you realize the hope for reciprocity is false. That happened this afternoon.”

Now Neal did say, “I’m sorry. You’re extremely perceptive.” 

“Survival skill. No need for apologies. It does not make you or the situation less attractive, rather, I’m pleased at your affection.” James thumbed Neal’s lips. “And ever so slightly in envy of this absurd partner.”

“He isn’t absurd,” Neal protested.

James chuckled, eyes fixed on Neal’s mouth. “See?” 

Neal considered the extremity of solitary existence contained within this man, and his own sense of isolation retreated. He was certain that a number of people cared about, perhaps even loved James, but he could not give in kind. The inability to love, well, among other things, that would destroy any hope of being an artist. A skilled craftsman, perhaps, but never artist. He couldn’t bear that sort of existence. He didn’t know how James could. Maybe the absence of the capacity, and therefore any comparison, was protective, like blindness from birth.

James watched Neal’s face closely, thumb continuing to caress. His regard seemed warm, attentive, almost intimate. Neal now thought about it solely as James enjoying the way Neal looked, how his skin felt. It wasn’t less compelling that way. He became aware that James was hard again. He reached over and stroked him. 

A muscle tensed in James’ cheek, his pupils flickering wider. “I find your compassion, the desire to heal—misplaced as it might be—utterly arousing. Particularly so, as I believe you will overlook it to provide what I need.” His fingers lifted, traced the faint bite mark from earlier. His eyes glittered.

Neal felt himself readying in contradiction to the emotional recoil he felt. He didn’t do bondage or torture. James might not want exactly that, but he wanted to be dominated. Hard. And something in that called to Neal. He stalled, still stroking, returning James’ steady gaze. 

Then, a realization struck. He did create humiliation, indirectly. Every mark would experience a moment, commensurate with Neal’s exhilaration, of horrifying, mortifying humiliation at being _had_. Neal flushed. He had chased the exhilaration, not the other effect, but one was just as real a consequence as the other. 

James had rescued him, braced him, tended to him, without an obligation to do so. Perhaps it had been curiosity, or professional courtesy, and then simply animal attraction. Whatever. He made a decision to play. The scales would be balanced. 

“You didn’t realize there had been a substitution,” Neal said, his voice level.

“Come again?”

“I fooled you. I’m not an agent, not even close, but you thought I was.”

James made a small scoffing noise, but his eyes grew wary.

The predator in Neal thrilled at that little bit of vulnerability. Neal stood, his fingers sliding from James’ skin, aware that his own erection hovered level with James’ face. “You’re a machine. You calculate the angles and odds. That’s what you’re for, to seek the correct target and execute the program. But you fucked up.”

James winced, but his breath quickened. 

It had occurred to Neal that in order to survive being ill-treated, James had allowed himself to become cross-wired. The signals now went to different places than nature planned. Neal almost shivered in delicious apprehension of what he was about to do. He forced himself not to show it, to project only disapproval and confidence. It was a game. No one would actually be hurt. 

“As it turns out, I did _all_ the work. And Pendelton should never have been able to capture me if you were on the ball.” He didn’t really believe that, but it sounded true. “Right?”

A fine sheen of sweat decorated James’ shoulders. “Yes.” His voice cracked a little. 

“That’s why you came after me. To fix your mistake.” It wasn’t a question, and James didn’t answer. His eyes were defiant. “On your knees,” Neal ordered. James scrambled to the carpet. “You owe me a thorough sucking for what I almost had to do today.” He gripped himself, heart pounding, and painted James’ lips with his precome. “Make it good, keep your hands behind your back, and do _not_ make me come.” 

A radiant look of gratitude as James slid Neal into his mouth jolted low in Neal’s belly. James moaned as he sucked and licked, fighting himself not to use his hands. 

Before he felt too far gone for control, Neal thrust further into James’ throat several times. James choked a little, but the other noises he made indicated more than just consent. “You better have condoms,” Neal gritted out. “Find them.” James lingered, hungrily sucking. Neal stepped back. “ _Now_.”

James slid away and disappeared into the second bedroom. Neal purposefully made his way to the grey room, the one he had chosen, and turned down the bed. James padded in with a strip of condoms in one fist, and a bottle in the other. Neal grabbed his wrist and pulled him to the bed, rolling him on his side facing away. He felt James listening, anticipating through the condom and lubing. He didn’t twitch a muscle. Neal didn’t stop to prepare James. When he thrust forward, James hissed long and low, and Neal reached over his hip and gripped him a little too hard in his own estimation. “When you escape an enemy, when you reach safety, what is the first thing you do?” He kept his hips moving. 

“Get off,” replied James. 

“Dirty and fast.” Neal said. “Dark alley, men’s toilet, abandoned warehouse, back of a hired car--unzipped and gone in two minutes.”

“Or less.” James said, hoarsely. “Sometimes again, right away.”

Neal’s brain felt burnt at the edges, from exposure. He wrapped his leg over James and found dirty and fast.  
*******

The car park roof was satisfyingly empty. An overcast sky took the edge off the heat. James passed the brief time fantasizing about the chill of a martini and a naked swim. 

At first glance, the suit looked ordinary enough, the sedan pure fed. But there was something else in the man’s stride. “Agent Burke,” he greeted, unfolding himself from leaning against the Tesla.

“Mr. Bond.” The man sounded mildly annoyed, his voice gruff. His handshake was solid. He gave the password.

“Yes, well.” James tendered a copy of the data. “It would have been easy enough to have my superiors forward to yours.”

“The United States appreciates your assistance, and that of the British Secret Service, but if you could retrieve all this on your own, why the meet?”

James allowed his most condescending smile out to play as he leaned back on the scarlet roadster and refolded his arms. “The man who located the missile in the name of the FBI, and allowed us to trace the buyer, would have nothing of it but that the credit should go to you personally. I’ve seen to that. But I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” He cocked his head. “Not certain I do yet.”

Peter Burke studied him for a few long moments. His expression grew taut. “Neal. Dammit!” He spun on his heel. 

James observed while the agent fumed. Nice build, nothing breathtaking. Of an age with himself. Strong hands. Something rather more compelling in the voice. James pretended to examine his own manicure as he spoke. “He seemed pointedly concerned about your safety, but you look like you can handle yourself. Said something about a debt. It’s a good day for all that Pendelton fell neatly into the hands of Interpol. He did prove quite dangerous in his own repugnant way.” 

Peter swung back around, anger folding behind concern.

James allowed his voice to warm considerably. “One wolf to another? Not to worry, Caffrey was in good hands almost entirely throughout.” 

There it was, the slight flaring of nostrils, clenching of jaw. 

So he pushed. “Scuffed perhaps, but no scratches. I believe you will find him at home safe and sound, securely tethered, and incidentally, _satisfied_.” He smiled, letting himself smolder a bit. 

Burke’s eyes widened and then narrowed. “Breaking the terms of his CI service does not help me or him or the interests of national security. No matter how cleverly he does it.”

“Let’s leave it at this. He does extraordinary work.” He eyed Burke up and down, coolly appraising. “It would be your loss to underutilize such a fine asset. Good day, Agent.” He slid behind the wheel and fired up the silent beast before leaning out the window. “I hope we will collaborate again. Anytime you’d like to let Caffrey off his leash, I’d be glad to suffer his apparent incorrigibility. Barring that, I might even visit.” He drove away smoothly, noting in the rearview mirror the stunned expression on Burke’s face.  
*******

Neal picked up the blocked call on impulse. 

“The Cessna proved helpful?” James asked without any preamble. He sounded far away.

“I answered the door in my pajamas for one of our team at 6:30 a.m. She wanted me to look at a forged document. Close call. Seems like someone got suspicious; they never come so early on a Monday.” 

“I’d love to know how you managed nearly 42 hours without detection,” James rumbled. “Not to mention getting in and out.”

“Weekends are easier,” Neal replied, evading for the moment. “I would have made it in roughly 29 hours except for the… extra delay.”

James chuckled. “Maybe you wouldn’t have made it at all.”

“Touché.”

James breathed a couple of quiet breaths. “I hope you’re a patient man.”

Neal kept the answer quick and light. “If the result is worthwhile.” 

James gave a noncommittal grumble. “I can’t speak to whether he’ll be worth the effort, all I could discern is that there’s something there. I touched a nerve when I implied—rather pointedly—that we’d been together. Might have just been protective, but I think not.”

Neal found his face warming at having outed himself to Peter. But then there was Bond, risking his uber-male reputation with the whole FBI just to do him a solid, trusting him that Peter wouldn’t gossip. “Thanks for that.”

“Meanwhile, don’t waste yourself,” James said, sounding amused.

“Glad you’re not the possessive type.” Neal smiled into the phone.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate you. But I’ll pursue the next opportunity presented. After all, I might even be dead before I ring off.”

Neal could imagine a chilly sparkle in James’ eyes. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I get it. Thanks again, for all of it.” 

The connection terminated without another word, but it seemed to go gently.  
*******

The intensity of Peter’s stern regard made Neal prickle with nervous heat despite the cool morning. He cloaked himself in nonchalance and handed over a coffee.

“I’m going to talk for a minute. Don’t respond,” Peter said.

Neal watched the passing traffic just over Peter’s shoulder and listened.

“You were out, you had to be. I’m thinking about changing tracker systems.”

Neal forced himself not to blink faster. He sipped. 

“I said I’m thinking about it because I’m torn. You didn’t lie. I failed to ask you the correct set of questions. You likely broke the terms of your deal. Technically. But I’ve chosen not to reread the contract line by line. Or order security footage from a certain casino hotel. Your intentions were good but you did the wrong thing. Again. I have to do something about that.” Peter rubbed his eyes. “A spy with a reputation for great results complimented your work. We’re live- tracking that missile now to Pendelton’s buyer. None of that justifies you disobeying me or taking my cases—or anyone else’s—into your own hands. It’s embarrassing for me to get credit for something I didn’t do or oversee. It doesn’t help me.” Peter paced a few times in what looked like utter frustration. “Neal, I need you to stop trying to make anything up to me. What you owe me is your loyalty, not grand gestures that risk your life and our ability to keep working together.”

Neal had to look at Peter then. Right in the big brown eyes. He bit down on what he wanted to say, and it cost him. But he remained silent as Peter had asked of him.

“Okay, I’m done. Except that I still have to decide what the consequences will be.”

Neal swallowed. “As a scholar of reform techniques, you’ve heard the term ‘natural consequences,’ of course.” 

Peter’s expression settled into worry but he stopped pacing. “Also used nowadays in _parenting_ , I think,” he said with a sarcastic edge.

“I have never thought of you as a father figure,” Neal said, with a tiny slip of mischief. “Believe me, I won’t be trying to repay you by amateur spy craft again—unless we work as a team. I miscalculated. I’ve grown so accustomed to you having my back that I took it for granted, unconsciously factored it in. But I didn’t have your help. Which was my fault.”

Peter’s expression grew more grim. “You cannot imagine how much you’re scaring me.”

Neal shook his head. “James got it all under control but that doesn’t make what I did less stupid. I don’t want to say more. I will answer if you ask me questions.” He gave Peter the most earnest eyes he could and prayed that he opted not to ask.

Peter was silent a long moment. “James.”

Neal thought that the word was loaded, and so he answered in kind. “Um. Yeah.” 

There seemed to be a small struggle inside Peter’s head. “It isn’t any of my business, at all, but I thought we were close enough that…” he trailed off, couldn’t make eye contact.

“What.” Neal prompted after a respectful pause. 

“Men?” Peter’s cheeks might have been a touch more ruddy than usual.

Despite having expected it, Neal felt his mouth go dry. He sipped latte dregs to overcome it. “Not for a long time. But yeah.”

“Now?”

“Well… recently, but not _now_ ,” he said, deadly serious.

Peter looked pained. Neal wished he knew why, exactly. 

“What… does that mean?” Peter dared to ask.

“Nobody’s listening to us, right?”

“Jesus, no. Why would I make a record of _knowing_ you slipped off to Atlantic City and, furthermore, of not knowing how the hell you did it?” Peter sounded exasperated.

“Okay, okay. This is hard.” Neal polished off his coffee and tossed the cup in a nearby bin. “Not while I was with Kate. Not since Kate, even though I wanted to. Not until I… slept with James. Which is not a lingering ties thing.” He ran a hand through his hair. “The key question is, do you want to know why I didn’t sooner? Why I haven’t told you.” He stood there, body language as casual and open as he could manage. “If you do, you have to ask me. And I will answer truthfully.” He kept his eyes on Peter’s.

A small eternity seemed to pass while Peter looked at him, brows drawn together. Slowly, his expression eased, shifted into warmth, and then clouded over into something that looked like doubt or apprehension. He took a firm grip on Neal’s shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. “You can always confide in me. I know it’s hard for you to trust people. My opinion of your character is not affected by you being, well…”

“Bisexual,” Neal said, dryly, noting the tiniest flinch from Peter at hearing it aloud. “I’m fine with that term. And no, I didn’t think it would affect your opinion. That’s not why.”

“Good,” Peter said, swallowing hard. He gave Neal’s shoulder another squeeze. “But not yet,” he replied, his voice gentle. “I don’t think I’m quite ready to hear an answer.”

“Fair enough,” Neal said. It couldn’t be said that he was disappointed. More like exhausted from seven whole minutes of conversation. 

They turned and started walking toward the office, Peter’s hand still on Neal’s shoulder. “I will ask you,” Peter said. “I just need some time to adjust.”

“Okay.”

“And… I don’t want to hear about Bond.”

“Oh, so it does offend you,” Neal observed.

Peter snorted. And then stopped in his tracks and wheeled on Neal. “You idiot. You snuck off and ran a high-level op with someone who wasn’t me, and worse yet, with that particular arrogant, means-to-an-end, shoot-you-himself to fulfill the mission, booze swilling son of a bitch. You let _him_ back you.” Peter turned Neal by the chin, exposing emergent bruises under his jaw where Pendelton’s fingers had dug in deep. “And you think I can’t see.” He let go.

“Oh,” Neal tried very hard not to focus his attention on Peter’s lips and tried even harder not to step closer. “So what you’re saying is, you’re upset because I stepped out on you with someone who does all the wrong things for the right reasons, and got hurt.” 

“Exactly,” Peter said, jabbing a finger into Neal’s chest. He turned without another word and stalked on his way.

It was a sunny day after all. Neal bit his lip to keep from smiling as he hurried to catch up.  
*******  



End file.
